Humpty's Last Fall
by Bu-Bound
Summary: Humpty Dumpty is seen as a direct cause of a failed kingdom. A fat egg with a yoke gone bad, Humpty relies on Edward, a military lieutenant and Bella, a peasant girl, to flee a war-ravaged country filled with blood-thirsty rebels, violent soldiers and nursery rhyme characters as wicked as Humpty itself.
1. Part One: Egged On

Part One:

Egged On

Humpty Dumpty was the name of the giant egg. And even as the egg continued to symbolize a certain greatness of the kingdom, by now, it was regarded less than the usual regal one expects of an official icon.

For hard times had befallen, and while nearly all recognized this, the lavish aspects of the king's court operated as if things were well. Humpty was no less the wear, and in demonstrating the philosophy that life in the kingdom had not changed for the worse, the egg continually stepped himself up a notch in his recreational activities.

The king was warily aware, though he showed little of his worry. Nevertheless, beyond him, as well as his constituents, advisors and spin doctors, word was out among the pubs, markets, on the corners and within the grooves of the cobblestone streets that Humpty was tipped over. Humpty had deep and bothersome afflictions.

Certainly, as Humpty was a blatant drunk, habitual drug user, and a contemptuously bulbous pursuer of feminine accompaniment, the egg's actions were less so debilitating to itself as they were the crown. In the darkest days, Humpty's disregard finally wore enough on the king to create in his mind a surly, shabby and unshaven character, fat and rotund, _egg-shaped _as it were, and most of all, a royal embarrassment.

As for the king, his wish was Humpty would simply disappear. Or fall in some manner, and crack its shell. But neither happened. The egg was too large to vanish, and the shell which inhabited the egg was fortified by weaves of high-tensile steel. It was a modern nursery rhyme in war-like strength.

Of course the king, needing to save face, sought to have reports on Humpty delivered daily in only the most confident and secretive of terms.

Far from the castle, deep in the confines of any dark restaurant, bar, or market stall, the king waited alone at a back table, dressed in peasant's garb. This usually was on Mondays and Thursdays, mid-afternoon, when no one in the castle would suspect the king's absence as nothing much happened during the mid-afternoon for the king.

Posers were everywhere, as were shysters and rip-off artists. The king, in disguise, was presumably one of these.

The man in the dark trench coat arrived with clockwork accuracy just as the king dove into his second scotch. The trench coat man sat heavily, ordered his own drink, and lit a cigarette as the king demurely poured through the photos spilled from a manila folder taken from the man's trench coat.

The king on almost every occasion such as this, shook his head at what he saw; the debauchery, the caught stills of the land's treasure and unofficial mascot, engaged in unspeakable acts with drink, drugs, prostitutes.

The king, on almost every occasion, would then look up, his question always the same: "Can these be verified?"

The trench coat man had only one answer: "Yes. Just as can the last."

No particular kindness existed between the man in the trench coat and the king. For one, the king was weakening quickly because of the statewide rebellion which had now lasted close to a generation, _his _generation, in fact. Secondly, in this very private case between himself and the man in the trench coat, the king _showed _weakness. He grew helpless. His eyes were wide, and his lips white with dryness. His hands shook, and his drinking had long since increased from two to four, and now four to six, all done within the half-hour meeting between he and the man in the trench coat.

So it wasn't particularly surprising that the man in the trench coat, not really attached to the idea of watching other men suffering, suggested an answer.

Being a humanist of sorts, the king steeled himself for what he knew the man in the trench coat would once again say.

Once again, it was: "You should have it eliminated. As I see it, your majesty, it's not impossible that this could happen. After all, look at the egg's quality of life. What doesn't roll the egg out of bed could kill it, and between the two lies slim borders. A diseased whore, alcohol poisoning, a bad batch of heroine." The trench coat hunched his shoulders up then down. "It isn't as if its shell, nor its position in history, makes it impervious."

"You're saying," the king began frankly, "Have Humpty killed."

The man in the trench coat said nothing. He instead lit another cigarette, which left the king to the loud thunder of his own thoughts. Finally, he shook his head.

"I could never do that on my throne."

The man in the trench coat inhaled, but still, afterward, there was nothing.

"A national treasure, you're saying. Just like that? Off Humpty like some dog in the street? Just like that? " The king closed his eyes at the thought. "But it's so revered."

"Revered?" The man laughed. "I beg the majesty's pardon, but really, you are quite clueless. That God damned egg is more hated than revered. No one these days is on its side. The people would like to see it dead rather than alive to, begging your majesty's pardon, drink and fuck at will."

The king took a moment to think this through. Then he said anecdotally, "Dead, huh?" He looked up at the shadowy face. "What makes you so sure it's everyone."

"An unscientific poll, your majesty. Least of all on my part. Word on the street and in bars, clubs, grocery stores, when coming out of the royal bank in tears at no longer having any money in an account. Yes, sire, the egg is part of the problem. The egg _is _the problem. The egg's screwing the kingdom, sire and the subjects aren't happy. They're not happy with you, with the royal court, with parliament, and especially the egg. The egg goes about like nothing is wrong, when all is wrong. In fact, most believe the egg's actions would be just as callous and scandalous even in good times, sire. Plainly put, no one likes the egg, or the few who do aren't saying as much."

"So," the king said. "My citizenry support all this."

"To the detriment of their support of you, sire, which is eroding quickly at that."

"Yes," the kind said. "Eroding. Which is why I have to crack down."

The trench coat shrugged again.

"The egg will be your undoing, sire. So maybe it's time you undo the egg."

But the king shook his head. This could not be handled at the moment. He ordered another drink, and while waiting for its arrival, folded his hands over the manila envelope.

"I think we've covered enough ground for now. Thank you for your time and commitment."

At that, the king took out his own envelope and slid it over to the man in the trench coat.

"For the poetry you've provided me tonight, Carlisle," the king said.

The trench coat man, Carlisle, didn't feel the need to count the money. This was the king, after all, and his highness had enough trouble as is to add one more by ripping off his deepest and most trusted confidant.

Even with a body like that, the egg was still a ladies' man, or rather, ladies' egg.

Its dance was the sort of obtusely-moving jig one could expect from a large and rotund shapeless body. A body, to that extent, of an egg.

But oh, what an egg Humpty was. Easily, its shell cleared two meters, two-and-a-half with this evening's platform soles on. And its suits were tailor-made; they had to be as nothing off the rack fit a chest, back and particularly a midsection such as Humpty's midsection. Even the egg's tie was custom threaded, while Humpty's hats were the sort that took a marvel of engineering of brim circumference carefully considerate of the smooth, yet undeniable broadness of the sloped scalp. In more cases than not, the accessory atop Humpty's head took on a smokestack's width more than a stovepipe height.

Humpty was well dressed, and for the most part, well-heeled. One saw the egg in only the finest restaurants where a voracious appetite netted the egg no less than three main courses, with double that for appetizers. The egg dressed well, dined well, humped somewhat well, and drank a well's worth as well.

Of course, to an increasing number of citizens, the sight of Humpty through a restaurant window, car window, or oval-like silhouetted backside through the upstairs window of a house of ill repute, was infinitely appalling. Of all the trouble the kingdom experienced, here was this big egg used for…what? A purpose of mascot, of meaning and existence? Why keep it around was the growing thought? The egg does nothing for morale as it flies in the face of the belt tightening everyone else goes through.

But others, albeit more from a conservative stance, believed Humpty Dumpty to be in irreplaceable figurehead in what the kingdom should represent. That not just a man, but an egg, could find success and adoration in itself, a belief to which Humpty Dumpty was the sole example, and might eventually help lift a country thus far so down on its knees.

The kingdom would survive, or so the egg purveyed. In the throes of large boulevards which branched off into small stone-paved streets on which were the cafes and small eateries that Humpty occupied in messiah-like presence between an obscenely baritone groan of a laugh or in Spring, a cannon-like bark of a sneeze and sniffle after the fired shot once the relentless pollen count brought on the egg's hay fever.

Sure, Humpty initially was something to look up to. The egg once was the epitome of the land's bright and fun-loving nature. Its people contained the spirit of smiles, liberal hello and goodbyes, gracious offerings of wealth and prosperity, grand times where only on the rarest of occasions, a downtrodden expression was seen, and in response to that, a person might say, "Come on, friend, don't be a downer. Turn that frown upside down."

These were, needless to say, the people of Humpty. They were true followers, soul mates, decided disciples, purpose-driven pedagogy.

But there also was the booze, the hookers, the heroine, cocaine and overeating. That was all also the stuff of Humpty. The excess. The excessive. All of which quickly rolled the egg downhill, cracking it in at least a symbolic sense.

Humpty's escapades left the king near the point of seizure. He slept less, if at all, and aged more in the last few months than the last few years. Humpty was hanging his highness out to dry. Why the hell did he put so much public trust in an egg? Why couldn't Humpty just be a good egg?

The king stopped himself. His hand slapped his head. _Eggs, _he thought. _Eggs…_

And with that, he called the general, even though he didn't need the general to call in the stealth forces. Still, the king wanted some feedback, and when he said, "Humpty Dumpty," the general knew exactly what he meant.

"My men can handle the egg," the general said with confidence. "Over easy, poached or however you'd like the egg served. We'll cook the bastard, short order style."

"Eliminate the egg."

The soldier looked at the order. He turned it, crumpled it in dismay, smoothed it out again to see if he hadn't misread the order's wording.

Yes, that's what it said:

"Is this shit affirmative?" He held out the message. "Eliminate the egg?"

Captain James, nodded. "Paper's don't lie."

His men, catching wind of the exchange, turned to face him. James shrugged, then touched his blond ponytail; the only soldier in the king's military given the okay to wear his hair that way.

"Orders are orders," he announced to the platoon. "Like some of you, I too have fond memories of the egg. It has been around as long as I can remember. In Christmas commercials, skiing downhill, coming on right after the electric shaver with Santa riding inside it. Then there were the Spring and Summer commercials. A fat egg in swim trunks being not at all a pretty sight, but it was our sight. Our kingdom's sight. Well, hell, Humpty should die just for that, am I right?"

"Hurrah!" yelled the soldiers.

"But no. In this case, Humpty will die as something worse. The egg will die as an enemy of the state. And we will get it, won't we soldiers? We will rid ourselves of the egg's oppression, won't we?"

"Hurrah!" came the response.

"Now suit up, and radios off. Communicate by hand. This fucking egg is to be poached, no questions asked."

The Humvee arrived gently and parked nicely. The soldier emerged from it to wander his way toward the pub. R&R was his mission, and Cullen planned to spend it first with a strong whiskey shot toward whatever might come for him that night.

Of course, Cullen was armed, and of course a vehicle was at his disposal, for in these days of the ever-present rebellion, one side blurred incessantly toward the other, and toward that, a soldier needed to be ready, even if he was as grandly drunk as Cullen planned to make himself.

So Lieutenant Edward Cullen walked in. He sat down on the first available stool. He ordered his shot, then felt the nudge in his side.

"Hey, Colonel." It was a civilian; a fat, wasted blight of what Cullen was here to protect one day, then destroy another. "Hey, Colonel," the man blubbered in repeat.

"I'm not a colonel," and Cullen swiped a hand toward the rank on his shoulder.

"Well what of it then?" the man slurred. "You'll soon earn your stripes if you save that sad bloke there."

The man jabbed his thumb to a shadowy corner of the pub. Cullen turned, looked, and widened his eyes in disbelief.

"Oh, for the love of…" He shook his head.

"Lofty spot for you, eh, Cap'n?"

Cullen flicked his eyes from the darkness to the man. "I'm not a captain, either."

"Colonel, Captain, whatever. You're certain to get a raise in rank if you get our friend away from here without cracking the shell."

Cullen didn't answer. He edged himself from his stool, realizing there now would be no drink for him, possibly no R&R either.

He approached the giant round figure. Cullen glanced at the empty tumblers on the nearby table, then upward at the giant blue vest/jacket.

"Sir Dumpty," Cullen acknowledged.

"Present and willing, soldier," bellowed the egg.

"You've had quite a bit." Cullen motioned to the empties. "Quite a bit, it seems."

"Present, but now past."

"I should escort you home, sir."

"You should, soldier, if I had one. But unfortunately, I do not believe I can return there. Take a note, please. Call headquarters, and see for yourself if the Dumpty residence is still intact."

"Intact, sir?"

"My meaning, soldier, is it's probably looted. Looted and burned to the ground."

Cullen nodded, but said nothing. He, in fact, didn't know what to say.

"You don't believe me, soldier? You don't concur that I am a wanted egg? Are you brainwashed and now left soggy like all the rest? Bollocks! I'll tell you what. I'm all full up here. That's all there is to that. I think I've drunk all this place has to serve in my regard. So I'll get up as I imagine you are asking me, soldier, and I will let you escort me somewhere away from here, I imagine, my safety. However, it will not be to my home. My home is now destroyed. I can tell you that with the utmost of confidence. I'm an egg without a castle, an egg without a nest." The egg stared past Cullen to the front of the bar, narrowing its bloodshot eyes. "And now I fear they're coming for me."

"Coming? Who?"

"Your mates. Your fellow soldiers." The egg smiled its giant face. "And it's not to help you get me out of here."

Just then, the front of the bar exploded into shambles, knocking Cullen back into a wall. Immediately, he raised himself, gazed through the smoke, then saw those of his ilk advancing, soldiers in tan fatigues, weapons raised.

But no, their guns were not supposed to be drawn. Their rifles did not need to be out. Their firing shields had no place being over their faces. But all was nonetheless there. All was in place and at the ready. And even then, with those notions swirling in Cullen's head and he muddied from the explosion's concussion, the beginning instincts to survive raised the lieutenant's hand, then his voice:

"Friendly! Friendly! Kingdom's soldier present! Soldier present! Friendly present!"

"Get the egg!" said a voice, and the soldiers trampled past. Cullen raised himself from the seedy sticky pub floor to gaze at the seedy stickiness above the floor. He saw the passing "friendlies," in their blur of faces and action until one raised the stock of a rifle to slam it into Cullen's forehead, blackening the world.

When Cullen came out of it, he heard one word from the fat drunk he initially sat beside. That word was more a name, more a destination: "Greenlands."

Cullen looked to where the man pointed his fleshy hand; a claw, really, as his hand looked as if it missed one or two fingers. The drunk's indication was a direction and now, an objective. However, after Cullen got to his feet and staggered out into the grim daylight, he found his Humvee missing.

He turned to the drunk who had staggered out after him.

"Drive me," Cullen demanded.

"No way!" The man held up his hands. "Not me. Not out to Greenlands. Those are the killing fields, man! Forget it!"

Cullen drew his sidearm and aimed it at the drunk's forehead. "Drive me, now!" he insisted, barrel leveled.

Minutes later, the drunk's pickup bobbed and weaved, his life still at gunpoint, until they arrived at a mound of scalded earth. Here, the man stopped.

"Kill me if you must, but I ain't going on. I've got a family. Shoot me here, because I wouldn't want them knowing I died in a place a person goes to when they want to die, or are forced to die."

Cullen gave the man a quick look, then reached for the door handle to exit.

"Go home," Cullen said back into the interior. He next slammed the door. "You've done your civic duty today."

The man stomped the gas and roared off, leaving Cullen in a cloud of dust. Then when some of the dust settled, Cullen had the notion to move forward, then bend as he approached a glow of lights at the top of a low hill. As he closed in on that light, Cullen hunched flat beneath the frigid night's air to the more frigid ground, waiting next for what to do.

Of course, interrupting Cullen's train of thought was the sudden whininess of Humpty's voice, stating the rather unbelievable circumstances of the circumstance at hand. The illegality of this circumstance, in fact. That no one authorized it. No one could have authorized it. A killing of the national egg? No way, no how. Doesn't anyone know who the bloody hell Humpty Dumpty is?

The egg did not plea for its life as would an ordinary non-egg/man would do. But then again, Humpty was not a man, and definitely not ordinary. Humpty was aristocratic, proper, stiff-upped-lipped. But Humpty certainly was not a man.

Cullen crawled closer. He bit his lip with the thought he caused noise. He moved upward to see Sir Humpty tied to a large pole the size of which could hold a basketball hoop. Soldiers stood all around, aiming rifles. In lieu of this, Cullen, even while standing to raise his voice to stop what became apparent as an execution, regretted doing so, for now, with just one word, "Stop!" the lieutenant was as much a criminal as the Humpty Dumpty.

Immediately, the rifles twisted Cullen's direction. Spotlights from Humvees followed, and in a split second, Cullen was lit milk white in harsh light that left everything else around him dark.

A voice shouted for Cullen to identify himself.

"Cullen, Edward," he returned.

"I'm Captain James. Are you a friendly?"

"Yes."

"Division and Rank?"

He said his rank, his division, 1225.

"God's speed to you and yours, soldier," said James. "I heard about your loss. Now, be on with it. What's your purpose here?"

"I'm here about the egg. About Humpty. What's he up for?"

"King's order. A directive. Execution."

Why?"

James' laugh echoed. "Why not in these days?"

Cullen said nothing. To his side was the bulbous pole-tied Humpty, breathing and whimpering thickly.

"Check him," James demanded.

"Yes, sir!" rang out another voice.

Footsteps trotted forward and past the outstretched guns trained on Cullen. He faced with a baby-faced soldier, probably just out of his upper grades, but now here in the royal army.

"You're a lieutenant," the young soldier said. Then he shouted over his shoulder, "The man's really a lieutenant. One of our." Then back to Cullen. "Bloody hell."

"Quit talking to the bastard and search him!" James rang deeply from the dark. "Or shall I send in someone for your assistance, Private?"

The soldier gave an embarrassed smile. Cullen nodded in understanding, then pulled his sidearm, and grabbed the soldier to whip him around and place the barrel to the soldier's soft temple.

"I may not see you in the dark, but you see me. I'm certain of that, yeah?"

The young soldier whimpered, struggled, but Cullen tightened his grip.

"Steady, lad," he said. "If this goes off against your head, Mum will have an awful mess to cry over."

"What do you want Cullen?" James rang out.

"Release the egg."

"Can't, Lieutenant. The egg's an enemy combatant."

"No," Cullen said. "No. It's a mistake."

"I wish so, but no. There's been no mistake. At any rate, you must first unhand my soldier before we can talk about the egg."

Cullen stared straight ahead as two soldier, then three more, than four more appeared out of the darkness into the white circumference of the spotlights. Cullen tightened himself around the soldier. He dug his gun's barrel farther into the fleshy head, causing a small cry.

"Why is the egg to be executed?" Cullen asked.

"Why do you care? Why do I care to even tell you? The egg's an embarrassment as far as I see. Otherwise, them's just me orders."

Cullen now faced seven rabid-faced veterans of horrific violence. Yet, unbeknownst to them, Cullen held a live grenade snapped from Rufus' belt as he fell away to the ground. Cullen knew this type of soldier. He served with them, then upon becoming an officer, led them. Yet with no love now for these proud few who had soured to brutal beasts, Cullen tossed the grenade into the very middle of them like it were a stone or a marble. Their concentration fell out of their bared teeth and wide eyes. There was confusion, scatter, beginnings of screams. It was odd, it was new, it was not counted on, those screams, knowing they came from the royal army's bravest.

Cullen ducked away. Even so, he felt the pieces of flesh and body parts fly past him. He heard cries and growls, then immediately afterward, shots which rang out his direction, which while in a thicket of brush, he readied his own gun, a soldier's rifle next, and laid out for handy reach more grenades stolen from a dismembered lower waist.

More shots sliced and pounded the ground around him. Cullen answered with two grenades, thrown in succession, which when they exploded, left an eerie silence to the Greenlands. But in a moment, a moan rose, then wild gunfire. Cullen felt no mercy. He tossed a third live grenade in the noise's direction, and in a second, with that explosion having gone off, only wind was heard. Wind, then one minute, two, three, four, Humpty's blubbering cries before the egg lamented faintly from the hilltop, "Oh dear! This is terrible! Oh no, they were going to execute me!"

Humpty continued this as Cullen climbed to his feet, staggered forward, then staggered by the remnants of soldiers; the parts and pieces, until he reached where Humpty was tightly tied to the pole.

"Bastards all. They were going to do away with me! Execute me dead on. No questions asked."

"I realize that," Cullen said, cutting the rope with his field knife.

"I hope so, soldier. For there will be an honor for you. A reward. A medal. I'll see to it myself."

Cullen pulled lose the last of the heavy rope. Then he looked over the damage, the death, the soldiers' remains. Something caught his eye, because something moved. One was still alive, and Cullen rushed over to bend to him despite the egg's shouts to not go near, that it could be a trap. Cullen leaned over the broken, bleeding, powder-burnt body.

"King's orders," the soldier hissed. "Kill the egg. It's a deficit." The hiss turned to a laugh." That drunk fuck, eh? All this for a fucking egg?"

The soldier laughed his last, then breathed his last.

When the smoke cleared, and the soldiers, even the most remotely alive, now ceased to move, Cullen had his first cry. It was a silent, soft whimper that belied his harsh appearance of mud-stained fatigues and face.

Then Cullen heard the egg. He heard its groaning appeal. Words came out of it, that egg, and in their tone, protest. Cullen raised to his feet, taking up the first available rifle. He slid back its bolt to ready the clip.

"You," he said gravely. "You are the cause here."

"Steady now. Remember, I am a symbol of your kingdom, kind knight. Without me, just as you earlier exacted, what have any of us in the name of all that we are?"

"In the name that all I am is murderer of my own men, all because I thought to save your symbolic hide."

"And were they that? Were they your men? Of your legion?" The egg seemed amazingly unfazed by the reality an automatic rifle was aimed at its pie face. Calmly, Humpty said, "Your king has fallen. It is true. He has imploded under pressures by those who have their own stake in the kingdom's issues."

"And one of the issues," Cullen growled, "is of course you."

"'Tis."

Cullen looked over the burned moor, and the dead soldiers upon it. Cullen turned back to the egg.

"All of what you say does nothing to rid the fancy I have to shoot you to pieces?"

"That's fine, soldier, because you haven't the fancy. If so, you would have done so a minute or two prior."

Cullen felt himself stumble. He blinked and tried for focus.

"You're just a lush." It was a weak retort. Lame. Without strength. But it was all Cullen had. "A lush of an egg meant to be some note of principle."

"Aye. That's what I am." Humpty smiled enormous teeth. "Now if you finish untying me, I shall wish to go to safer haven."

"What about all I've just said?" Cullen demanded. "How about an answer to that?"

"I just gave you an answer, soldier. And my reply is I wish to go."

Now adequately free, and decidedly mobile enough to hobble about on its thin legs, the egg pointed its stumpy arms toward a strange-looking lorry.

"I was transported in that. The boys knew it was all that could bring me here. In one piece, that is, before they were to blow me apart."

Cullen squinted at the odd vehicle, it's trailer portion tall like a rectangle on end. He nodded.

"Let's be on with it then."

"Yes, but to where?" Humpty asked.

Cullen shifted his eyes toward the dirt and gravel secondary road, and the darkness it continued on into. Nothing about the road reassured him as it only led deeper into the Grasslands. After a moment, the lieutenant could only shrug at his circumstances.

"We should just move is all," he said.


	2. Part Two: Swan Song - Part 1

Part Two

Swan Song

Of all she knew of men, men most likely already knew of themselves. That when men fall asleep in strange places, they awaken again in a start, and wonder just where in the hell they are, and what on earth they have gotten themselves into.

As Bella imagined it, this now must have been happening to the soldier who lay in the barn, _her _barn with the egg. _That egg, _near him. Near as if the soldier, Cullen, were protecting it, which Cullen _was_.

Yes, he awakened with a start. He must have. And Cullen had to have uttered, "What the fuck!" given off through his hoarse, phlegm-filled voice as he shook himself out of his sleep.

And with this realization that a so-called national treasure snored away in the vicinity, must have had mystification on his face. Pure mathematics had to play through Cullen toward how he could calculate out of the very serious spot of trouble this was.

Or once Bella thought it out again as she imagined the lieutenant patting about the hay and looking at the rotted wood walls, could it be she was the one in the real trouble? Maybe even more trouble. Could she be the goat for the egg?

Hard to say. Hard to tell.

Because on one hand, his deficit could possibly be her gain. After all, she had a soldier _and_ Humpty Dumpty in her family's barn, which in itself was a coup, a grand coup. The only problem with that was Bella didn't yet feel it.

She felt, instead, the weight of the pancake batter bowl, which began as enough for two, then soon became enough for four, then on second thought, eight, when Bella considered the egg's size.

And just with that consideration, Bella felt a breath behind her, an old breath, which fell on her neck lightly as could the sensation of wisdom and forethought.

Bella turned to find Carlisle, who immediately leaned past her to sniff at the griddle and all else atop the stove. Then he noticed the largeness of the griddle.

"Carlisle." She bowed. "Mr. Poet."

He squinted at the griddle. "Is there company over for breakfast?"

Bella deflected the question. "You were up late last night?"

"How would you know as late as you came in?"

Bella shrugged. "My farm, my rules."

He nodded, but did so only after a long stare at her. Then Carlisle said, "It's good of you to take me in. This isn't a world fit for someone like me."

"Reckon not, Mr. Poet. Maybe if you temper your words."

"And maybe if I cut off my own hands and decide to no longer to feel." He gave a sardonic laugh. "Yes, laying brick would be more the benefit for myself to the world, especially as I've long since realized the danger I'm in."

"Yes, Baud Carlisle," Bella responded. "The poetry you write is louder than bombs."

She then turned back to pour the batter, which he watched with suspended interest. Then, with the batter sizzling, Bella asked, "Ever wonder why you were kicked out of so many homes before now?"

"Sure," Carlisle answered. "Because I hadn't yet found someone with nothing to lose. Such as yourself that is."

Bella had no argument to the contrary. She had nothing to lose. Because as it was, desperation was her bedfellow, as well as exploitation, both of which had long since been intruders into her life.

And so here once again were those intruders in the form of Cullen and the egg. Usually, the intruders were rebels who got stashed up there in the barn's rafters. Rebels and their weapons, all stashed in the barn.

Sure, security forces knew to look there, leaving Bella suspect. But as of now, nothing was found. Yes, she was a rebel, but a clean rebel whose farm stood up to being turned over with the continual raids.

Of Carlisle also knew Bella.

"New souls are amongst us, aren't they?" Carlisle sat at the kitchen table. He crossed his legs and waited for an answer. Bella gave none.

"I have a large bucket of batter. That only says it's initiation day." She paused. "The pancakes are for the new recruits, which you can meet of course."

Carlisle waved his chaffed, cracked hand.

"I've met enough recruits in my day, Comrade Swan. I'm full up with bright-eyed, bushy-tailed rebels. Maybe some other time. As for now, I have propaganda to write."

He got up and left. Bella stood still a moment, thinking, wondering, plotting, then decided to pour the batter for the pancakes, then more batter for more pancakes, then more until the stack reached near her shoulder and the kitchen was thick with smoke.

Afterward was bacon. Eggs? Well, considering her rotund and oval guest, to serve eggs to the egg may have been too cruel, even by Bella's own insensitive standards.

Of course as a rebel, Bella had to be insensitive. A middle-height, dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties who now owned her parents' farm, who while now struggling inside the kitchen with a plateful of pancakes, yes, she had to be insensitive, or at least insensitive enough to also pick up her 10-millimeter handgun which could shoot through tank armor.

Sheesh, if her parents only knew she hid criminals, rebels and terrorists in the barn? The conniption they would have after finding out what crouched among the hay bales, lay flat in the rafters, or stood straight up in the tight confines of the corn silo.

Her parents hated the rebels, hated even more the idea of rebellion. Anything as much as a whisper of insurrection was quickly silenced in the house or out in the fields, particularly if rebellion involved Bella, who was the Swans' only child.

This was why the now dirty, pungent and rangy rebels, often came to stern warning from her father and mother when those rebels were just local kids.

"Your system will not sustain you in lieu of theirs," Bella's father called out in the stuffy tone that spewed from all gentleman farmers in the province.

Bella always concluded it a hideous display that her father should raise a rake, hoe, or antique double-barreled shotgun toward Jacob and the rest, who came round with their propagandist outlay.

And Renee Swan, so much a domesticated mother under the thumb of proper wife of proper man of proper country, would assert the same after wiping her hands with a dishtowel, only to wag her index finger at "the gang" after they bounded up in old wrecks of cars assembled with spare parts and eager wrenches.

"Do your parents know what all of you are up to?"

"As sure as the sun rises, Renee," Charlie shouted. "Their parents have no clue. If their parents did know, the ears of each boy here would be boxed and their fathers' switch taken to their arses."

An ear boxing. An "arse" switching. And all to quell rebellion in the land of Egg which would soon be fed pancakes. The Boys of Jacob, Bella thought as she walked with a serving plate laden with Cullen and Humpty's breakfast, a mass so heavy, she needed to bend forward to carry it.

Those Boys of Jacob would never do with slapped ears and asses. Bullets would be the only things to stop them. That was the case when she, Jacob and the others were kids, and was surely the case now.

She pounded the barn door. In response, a gun clicked from inside.

"It's me. It's Bella. I've something to eat for both of you."

The door slowly opened. Cullen's eyes appeared from the barn's dim interior and peered into the space behind and around Bella.

"Alright."

He widened the door and watched her step forward. Cullen could have been smiling, but Bella wasn't sure because of the lack of light. He did to have the awareness of someone who'd been up for a while, this being a little before 7AM, or again, someone who may not have slept in the last three hours since sinking the moving van into the lake, then loping off to here with the egg, it wearied and huffing, complaints dribbled from its fishy lips in slobbery sighs that the terrain was too hard on its feet.

"Still warm, though no butter and syrup. Sorry."

The lieutenant shrugged. "It's food, ain't it?" He took the serving plate and nodded. "Thanks for this. It's a trouble for you, I know."

"'Tis, yes."

"I'm sure _he _will appreciate it." He nodded to the slumbering mound of white shell, covered by a horse's blanket.

Bella clicked her tongue. "Like I give a fuck, yeah? I just want him with enough strength for both of you to be away from here."

"Just like that?"

"No, far before just like that, Lieutenant. It's a mistake, 'tis true. But you'd both die for sure out there in the dark or day."

"Thank you for the mercy," Cullen said.

"Oh, thanks, eh? Nothing cares that you've a rifle and he a position as the state's drunken jester."

She looked away then, like this were almost a painful admittance.

"It's the world's way at large, I reckon, Lieutenant. As you call it, mercy I guess, must be of some repose, even on your behalf."

Cullen nodded, then he held up the plate and said, "Well, again, thanks."

"Yeah. Best tuck in then before they grow cold."

Bella turned for the barn's door, but stopped when he came up in front of her.

"Don't go yet. Stay awhile. Having company's good."

"I can't stay and you can't either. Patrols come round as do rebels. If I'm not out in the fields soon, they'll start sniffing round the place."

"We eat fast. I know the egg does. It's hard rumor it swallows food without chewing."

Cullen smiled at his attempt toward a joke. Then his eyes brightened.

"Hey," Cullen said. "Want to see how you wake the national mascot?"

"Don't care."

"You will at a cocktail party when the joke's bounce off one guest then the next."

She huffed. "Cocktail parties. Be serious."

He put the serving plate on a hay bale. "Watch carefully, Comrade."

"I'm not _your _comrade, soldier. Show respect for the title."

He squinted. "Right then, rebel. Watch carefully…"

Cullen moved toward Humpty's huffing frame. He leaned close to the pie face and whispered, "The kingdom has forgotten you,"

The egg immediately shot up and came to low, bellowing cries and tears. Cullen leaned back, hiccupping with laughter as

Bella growled, "Shut him up before someone hears."

Along with the hay bales, the farm machines and tools, all under the dimness of the barn's interior, two stern and unforgiving wood chairs populated the barn.

One was in use as Cullen's seat. The other was waved off by Bella who decided to pace, while Humpty Dumpty waved the chair off as well, the egg knowing if it sat on it, the entire assembly would burst into splinters.

So the egg, still stinging from its rude awakening, sat like a child, legs out, on the hay-strewn floor. The platter while on the egg's pond-sized lap, disappeared into abundant flesh that poked out from beneath the dark blue vest.

With massive hunger, Humpty forked chunks of pancake into a mouth that stretched the circumference of the enormous egg head. And as it ate, only in spates did Humpty care about Bella's presence, looking up now and then with the small red eyes that seemed more concerned with guarding its food than anything more. Bella glared back in return, until she said:

"If I know my people, their noses are already to the ground. And the guard…" Bella looked directly at Cullen. "Your lot when they came, well, I'm certain you have an inkling of what they can do to people like me."

Humpty sat up straighter from the platter, fork in hand. The egg belched horrifically. A rotten smell coming from its stomach, which Bella furiously waved off.

"But where are we to go?" the kingdom's mascot asked.

"It doesn't matter to me where you go. What matters to me is that you two not stay here. I'll give you both 'til noon. You can sort things out until then. I'll even be nice and tell you where a couple safe spots are along your way. But you have to be careful as folks might not help the likes of either of you."

"Yes, but," Humpty began, "that tells us nothing."

"Oh, so you'd rather I tell you _something?" _ Bella laughed. "Have I not just told you _nothing? _You know, egg, you'd be a much better symbol if you just for a God damned moment forgot your sense of entitlement."

Humpty blinked his small red eyes, cross with acute fury.

"Both my symbol and entitlement go hand in hand, lass."

"Aye, egg, and there's the problem, right?"

"As if you have another symbol in mind?"

"No, I don't. No symbol comes to me. Especially after you bullocksed up everything a symbol is supposed to mean, you drunken piece of garbage."

"I _beg _your _pardon, madam!" _

"Right!" Cullen said. "Right then! Enough arguing. We're to be out by noon, yeah?"

Bella nodded. "Fine."

"Can you first then give us the lay of the land?"

Bella gave a wry smile.

"I'd love to."

PART TWO TO BE CONTINUED…


	3. Swan Song - Part 2

Part Two: Swan Song (continued)

Her description of pretty was ugly. The land contained moors and forests, lakes, rivers and streams, meadows as well, in addition to plains and mountain ranges.

But Bella described them all as perilous, wrought with danger. With each of the land's features, Lieutenant Edward Cullen would not as likely be safe in a tank as on foot.

"That's why." Bella pointed to Humpty. "It may as well have a bull's-eye attached to that blue suit jacket. You, soldier, will simply be collateral damage."

"Then what?"

"Then _what?" _She looked at him with exasperation. "That's your call, mate. Ditch the egg or run with it. I can't be the deciding factor in your attachment to this so-deemed national treasure."

Humpty huffed unbecomingly. "You can't abandon me, soldier," the egg bellowed. "And you know so."

Cullen didn't reply. Nor did Bella as she stood beside the barn's door, her hand on the bar which opened it.

"The first patrol comes a quarter past noon. I want no sign of either of you here when that happens."

"Then why don't you just kill us?" the egg offered. "If at all, it'll be bragging rights for you. Kingdom's symbol, royal mascot, blown out of its shell. Why not, madam? You should give that a go."

Hearing this, Bella smiled.

"The reason, egg, is I can't be bothered. I've already done enough for the cause."

"One can never do enough," the egg declared.

"Well, I differ in that opinion, egg. In fact, some can say I've already destroyed you both by bringing you here only to set you free to wander rebel land."

"Rebel land?" asked Humpty. "Is that what you call a wasteland of woebegone souls? People too shunted in their self-commiseration to pull their asses up?" The egg grunted a laugh. "I've seen a pathetic load in my time. But this, and you, lass, take the whole bloody cake."

Bella's face darkened. Her grip on the door tightened, which rose veins from her thin arms. Cullen made a mitigating sound which was his throat clearing. But the rebel wasn't about to ease.

"Go to hell," she said.

"Why?" said Humpty. "When you brought us to hell on your own?"

She opened the door and exited, slamming it behind her with such force, dust fell from the rafters fell onto Cullen, Humpty and the uneaten pancakes.

The only feature unbecoming of the captain was his blonde ponytail. Otherwise, James was military through and through. His platoon was as tough and sharp as he, yet their skill was of the conscript's level, leaving James the unenviable need to lead a force of 25 to hell and back, all of it base on his officer's experience.

Of course, by those who served with Captain James, understood how the demure existed in his command. To brag, as an action, was nonexistent in James' authority. He never gloated about a hill or hovel held, a town taken, or a village vanquished. That was because failure as much as triumph was eminent in a military man's life. Case in point being Humpty Dumpty.

The egg. The giant debauched and traitorous egg. The fugitive egg, on the run somewhere in the land, yes, this was the current reason of life for Captain James, and the current interest of the news crew who followed him and his troops, hopeful to be first on hand with their broadcast if and when Platoon 1225 took purchase of what was now deemed as Public Enemy Number One.

"Has the loss of half your platoon by one rogue soldier eased the mission's necessity, Captain?"

The question caused a flinch in Captain James. He grew vexed with anger and frustration, though not from the question, but who asked it.

For the reporter who these days was assigned to follow James and his platoon was Alice. Sure, she was an okay reporter and had an all right presence on camera. But what remained more pressing was Alice and how she was Carlisle's daughter, which in James' view made her as much a state's enemy as her father. The thing was, neither the father nor the daughter could be touched.

"The loss of my men," James answered, "only fortifies us to complete our mission."

"Which is to net Humpty, dead or alive. In short, make an example of the egg."

"Humpty's rather done a good job of that already, don't you think?"

"I'm not sure, Captain. It's your question. You should answer it."

James did. The videotapes showed so. There it was on national television for anyone to see. The captain's gritty, gaunt and mud-splattered face coupled with his treacherous personae, all of which existed on his explosive anger by the egg's escape.

In short, James had then lost the egg. He also lost 20 men. Now with he and what remained of his other men, they scoured countryside, towns and villages, going house-to-house.

But by Alice's estimation, along with her cameras, what the captain had done was grow desperate.

"So are your plans today the same as yesterday, Captain?"

"Decidedly," James answered as he absently touched his ponytail. "Nothing changes but the days."

"Which at that, Captain, a few have passed."

"Yes, a few have passed."

They were on the outskirts of a town whose name had been erased from a sign by machine gun fire. Farther in from its border, the town had been burned and pilfered. At the edge of this stood James' men alert in their transports with the diesel engines clattering in a cacophony of valves, pistons and injection.

The camera person was on the ground, filming upward to James who stood upright behind the turret of a tank's massive machine gun. He had on a combat hat, bulletproof vest, insignia of rank and a sidearm he might just have to aim at the reporter to take off the top of her head, sacrificing her to the proof that enemy gunfire did indeed shoot down reporters. But no luck existed with that. The camera person continued her focus on James while Alice continued her questions.

"Should it not just be forgotten, Captain? After all, reports an uprising in the south occurs at this moment, unabated and unchallenged by the royal military."

"I have my orders," James answered.

"Who gave them to you?" Alice asked.

"I did."

At least the camera crew was not intrusive. No one got in the way of military purpose as it ripped apart a house, barn or shed. But here, now facing a residence called the Swan farm, James stopped, particularly when the reporter said, "My father lives there."

This was a poor admittance. All emotion and no thought on Alice's part.

James smiled, "Really? The great poet?

He flicked forward his hand, and his platoon followed en route up the private dirt road of the Swan farm. Then, as his tank approached which Alice ran beside, James caught sight of the woman working the fields. She held a hoe with which she dug furiously. This was Bella, who turned upon hearing the approach of a tank, half-track and lone Humvee, which behind it was the heaving and misplaced news van.

"Have you an idea of why we're here?" James asked as he motored close to Bella.

She rose, the hoe's handle balanced in the nook of her arm. She put a hand over her eyes to shield herself against the unrelenting sunlight that shrouded James.

"Again," he said. "Any idea of why we're here? Well, I'll tell you. We're looking for a rogue subject."

"To do what with?"

"Never you mind."

James then waved his platoon forward to where the tank and half track crushed over the barbed wire of her farm to park itself squarely in the field.

"Who's here other than yourself?" Captain James asked.

"The state's poet. But I'm sure you knew that already."

"And when was he last here?" Alice asked.

"Two days ago." Bella suspiciously slanted her eyes toward the camera which had followed the captain. "Maybe he enjoys interrupting women at their work, or watching them work, before it becomes boring in a day's time." Bella turned to the reporter. "You should know. He's your father."

Alice's face turned cold.

"Maybe for my sake," James said. "I should switch up the timing of my visits."

"Switch all you want, Captain," Bella answered. "Your results will be the same."

Alice cleared her throat, then lowered her mouth to her microphone. "And of the poet, how is old Dad?"

Bella shrugged. "Ineffective."

"You know," James said, pointing to the 25 strong in their armored machinery. "They're thin and hungry, wanting to return to their wives, girlfriend and mamas. That's the hunger in all of them. So what can I say about a soldier's mind other than it's the quirkiness of home that gives his body the need to survive. And to that, in these days, the sooner the rebel faction is suppressed, with or without the assistance of Ms. Swan, the faster my boys go home. The egg is just another who believes the grass is greener on the other side, and what I intend, once caught, to make the most straightforward example of for all in my kingdom to see."

Some exchange took place. Cullen saw this through the slats that made up the barn's wall, which, the barn in total, Humpty called "charmingly pathetic."

"What are they now doing?" the egg asked.

"She's just given James the bird. And he's _taken _it." Cullen clicked his tongue, which Humpty distinctly heard.

"Do you disapprove of that?"

"I used to. I don't care much anymore."

"Why is that?" Humpty asked. "You're a representative of our crown."

"Don't you mean _your _crown?"

"No, sir. I know what I said. It's as much your crown as mine."

Cullen nodded then turned to the barn's dim interior and the huge oval shape which sat with its legs stuck out forward from its body like a kid. The lieutenant smiled, laughed, then next uttered, "Unbelievable that someone can be so much a votary of a cracked system."

"Aye, Lieutenant, cracked as it is. But there are others out there like me."

"Three meters and full of mess? Quite."

"It's no joke, soldier, when history decides to play itself out."

Cullen stepped forward, his weight crushing the hay.

"And what says you that history hasn't already played itself out? What says you that lords and ladies are found in petrol stops, strangled by rope from the overhangs? That's perpetuation of a century's old notion as strong today as was when first written on a deer's hide?" Cullen smirked. "So save the history lesson, yeah, and consider the reality."

"Collapse of a nation, you mean."

Cullen shrugged. "If so, yes. I'm a soldier and you're a symbol. Whose knowledge is better, yours or my own?"

"I call it a draw, soldier."

"Fine," answered Cullen. "Call it that. Call it what you'd like. But let me remind you the idea is to stay alive. With that, nothing changes."

"Until I'm dead," the egg added. "At any rate, what's your part in this? Your accomplice to an egg that hides in filthy barns?"

"I'm waiting to see my part, Sir Humpty. Word hasn't yet reached me on your status."

"My status hasn't changed. I am still alive, so is the notion of country. Killing me is to make a martyr of me, and we all know martyrs have an infinite lifespan."

"Full of yourself, ain't you?"

"What national symbol isn't, Cullen?"

Cullen was about to reply when the approaching drone of the tank and half-track stopped his words. He turned back to the barn's slats to see Bella stand over the wooden handle of her hoe.

Cullen unbolted the door, much to Humpty's protestations, which caused the egg to duck and squirm away in a loping roll. Cullen was through the barn's door, across the gravel drive, and into the fields that encompassed the entire house, Bella standing alone in the middle of them.

"I won't ditch him," Cullen said when he was near enough to not raise his voice. "I won't."

Bella nodded, looking off as the tank and half-track advanced to the barn.

"You still need to leave."

"I understand the trouble we've been."

Bella turned to till the ground beneath her.

"It's time you go, Lieutenant."

"No, Ms. Swan, it's time _we _go." He drew his handgun. "Right now."

Bella saw the weapon then dropped her hoe. She raised her hands.

"Keep them down. We're going to walk to the barn, but that's it, Rebel."

Minutes later, both had the egg out through the barn's rear entrance. Cullen hushed the mascot quiet to which the egg demanded, "I beg your pardon, sir."

Bella pulled out her .45 to place against the egg's shell, knowing the bullet would go through anything, whether or not it was reinforced.

"Just shut the fuck up, all right?"

And the three bounded from the fruitful forest and over the war-scorched fields to the baldly burned moors which no longer held the fog that had blown in from over the ocean.


	4. Swan Song - Part 3

Swan Song: Part Three

The idea here seemed to be for her to plant green beans, least that was what Cullen thought of the little green seeds waiting inside a pull wagon.

"So," he asked. "You eat all this?"

"I do. These days they're for me and the poet, Carlisle."

Cullen nodded. "I'd like to meet the poet. I must say he's made a horrific weapon of himself with his messages."

"It's his job."

"And this is yours," Cullen said, sweeping his arm over the field at large. "Why is that?"

"Last born, last jobs."

"Last?"

"You know the answer then." She smiled, though it seemed painful to do so. "My parents were shot the day our king anointed them Sir and Lady. It was propaganda gone askew, but historical in a sense as Ma and Da were the first royals slaughtered in these parts."

Cullen nodded. "Where were you when this happened?"

"Opening stolen bottles of champagne, in celebration of their death."

Cullen and Bella walked over the circumference of the farm until they arrived at their starting point. His calves felt as if they'd covered many kilometers which wasn't at all the case. Through the course, the lieutenant made note of the molehills, which he recognized from his officer's training courses.

The molehills held significance as they weren't built by and for animals as more likely they hid weapons or marked an entrance to some endless tunnel.

Cullen counted at least a dozen molehills, which was not in the least surprising. What surprised Cullen was Bella, and her indifference to he seeing them.

This told the lieutenant that he and the peasant girl were on an even ground. He was here and alone, and she had nothing to lose. Both carried their weapons, his visible, while hers was a square mound beneath her smock. It was the most militaristic/rebel aspect of her, the gun, followed quickly next by her black, calve-high tread-soled boots.

As they walked, the discussion between them centered on he and Humpty moving forward.

"It's all I have to say about the matter, soldier. So let's not pound it to death. At least you can thank me for the plan I'm outlining for you and the egg."

"Plan?"

"Directions through the Greenlands you and the egg can take to stay safe."

"Right, and there's a fat chance of that, is there? I mean staying safe. You may as well call your rebel friends and have them come out with shotguns and machetes."

"In my barn or on my property? No, soldier, that would be more trouble than it's worth. You and your mate need to be offed somewhere other than here."

"So you'll shepherd us to slaughter?" Cullen asked.

"You've managed that fine enough on your own. As for me, I can't bed the both of you for another night. Not with the guard sniffing me up or others of the resistance due to come by. Where do you think that will leave me with a king's soldier and egg in my barn? Or do you not care?"

"Coming from you wanting to throw us to the elements, that question is ironic, to say the least."

"And to say the most?"

"It's insulting."

She looked up, smiling. "Be that as it may, Lieutenant, I owe you nothing. You did not save my life. Nor did you advance our cause by debilitating your own. Sure, you might have fallen twenty-five of your men, but in your heart, it was to save yourself and no one else. The egg was just the lucky collateral recipient."

Bella then turned to the house's window, where inside, a gray-haired man stood, looking out.

"Bollocks," she whispered.

"He's old now, isn't he?" Cullen offered.

"Yes, but still the voice of reason for 10,000 strong." Bella shook her head. "Why I thought to parade you around the farm like…"

"Like a prize?" Cullen asked.

"Don't flatter yourself. A poet laureate knows a military outfit as well as he knows his own signature."

"Carlisle then," said Cullen. "And hiding out in your barn." He nodded at the notion. "So we both have our baggage, don't we?"

"Carlisle isn't baggage. He's an uplifting spirit."

"Really? Even when his spew spills my soldiers' blood?"

The old man in the window waved. Bella took note.

"It's lunchtime for him," she said.

"So," and Cullen couldn't help his sarcastic laugh. "You're going to make him a sandwich?"

Bella looked from the window back to the soldier.

"Is this how you want to end things? With you insulting me?"

He stood at an angle and shrugged.

"I thought so," Bella said, walking toward the house.

His watch said two minutes after one o' clock. Over an hour ago, he and Humpty should have been long gone from here. But the men who drove up to the farm were far too intriguing to Cullen's instincts for him to do anything but crouch in a field and watch.

Cullen figured it did not hurt matters to hunker amongst the crops. After all, an intact farmhouse was a rarity these days, and when found by royal troops, was usually set ablaze fearing enemies might be inside. Should that happen, at least he'd be available to help douse the fire.

But in this case, it wasn't royal troops, but as Cullen understood, rebels who rattled upward in a pickup. Once stopped, two persons emerged from the cab and one from the bed. They looked around, then fanned out to hunt and peck around where they walked.

After a few moments, one finally yelled, "Found it!" And the other two converged to watch the first kneel and dig into the soil of one of the molehills.

"Well?" asked another of the three. "What's there?"

The digger pulled out a machine gun from the dirt.

"Bullshit!" the third remarked. "We've a ton of those already. More bullets for more mayhem. Come bloody Christ on."

"Beggars can't be choosers," said the digger, placing the gun back.

"When a whole God damned ideal is being fought for, you bet beggars can be choosers, especially beggars like us."

The three soon sloped off with full bellies from the lunch Bella snuck out onto a nearby folding picnic table. Bella turned to walk back into the house, leaving the front door open.

Cullen moved straight that direction, and across the antebellum porch. He waited at the open front door, though with a disarray of protocol. Why should he feel he needed to be a gentleman? After all, the woman was a rebel. And with he being a royal soldier, they were enemies.

For this reason, Cullen drew and readied his gun. He entered the house's dimness witch was a similar pitch to the barn's lack of light. In just a mere step or two, the lieutenant found himself in a foyer through which he continued until a doorway. There, on his left was an empty living room with a fireplace. To his right was another empty room that led through to a very empty but clean-looking kitchen.

There was no furniture to be found. But there was a man. It was the same gray-haired man Cullen saw in the window, but who without any warning now stood directly in front of Cullen, as if he'd appeared out of thin air.

"Get back!" Cullen shouted, aiming.

"Or what? You'll shoot me?"

"Yes, I will."

"And have a million more souls complement the thousands looking to string you up?" The old man clicked his tongue at the gun's barrel. "You need to reassess your purpose, soldier. That is if it is to assassinate me, a poet for an egg. Or is that the trade off for someone who writes about plight in lieu of government gluttony?"

Cullen aimed into the man's face. "I haven't the slightest idea."

"Nor do I these days."

"Why did she leave the door open, eh?"

"Maybe it was because these old farmhouses get stuffy. Or maybe it was because it was for you to meet me."

"And why should I meet you?" Cullen asked. "You're the poet. You're Carlisle."

"So you do know."

"Yeah, I know. Every soldier knows. Honestly, I'm a bit fascinated, but not nearly enough to miss your head at this range."

"Even if I can work my charms on you?" Carlisle snuck a peek at Carlisle's shoulder, at the insignia stitched there. "Lieutenant, is it? Tell me, does your king know you are here, across bounds?"

"He will when I put a bullet in your head."

"You won't kill him!" Bella's voice shouted from behind Cullen. "You haven't the guts!"

She said this from the staircase that suddenly became apparent behind he and the poet, the staircase which was somehow hidden in the dimness.

"You can't handle the consequences if you did," she continued from midway up.

"This is a death machine," Cullen said. "An atomic bomb doesn't have his power."

The poet, Carlisle laughed. "Flattering."

"Shut up!" shouted Cullen, aiming harder. "The time for smugness is over. One bullet from me and a war could end."

"Then do so, soldier," said Carlisle. "You've gained the trust of this lass whose heart you'll break. She's left that front door open to her house which has been pillaged. She has nothing but the roof, walls and windows, and the fields out there to feed herself. And inside, along with her, is the voice of dissent. And you've found all this out, haven't you? So with that, fire your gun. Kill the rebellion and end the war. Just like you say."

"Right," Cullen hissed. "Absolutely right."

And all grew quiet. No one said a word. The house, its walls, the beams that held up the house's walls, roof and windows did creak, but the three knew that was just a house complaining, settling, nesting. Any other noise was human noise.

"Go ahead, solider," said Carlisle. "Shoot."

And Cullen did.

(Part Two to continue)


	5. Swan Song - Part 4

"You missed," said Carlisle, though he held his hanging left ear in his left hand. "You're a poor shot, sport. Graduated the academy like that, did you?"

The poet then turned to Bella. He was calm, even tempered, matter of fact, even as blood poured down the side of his face.

"Good thing I called Jacob and his mates ahead of time."

Bella's eyes widened. "You did _what?"_

"It's for the cause, my dear. The cause is everything."

"Bloody hell! They'll tear the farm apart."

Carlisle now cupped his ear in his palm. "Humph," he said toward it. "Now I've got to figure how to sew this back on."

One word was said then, and one word only, and from Bella specifically to Cullen.

"Run!"

The egg was incensed. Humpty Dumpty was angered beyond even its own belief.

"Where have you been, soldier? I shall not be left alone like this. Who do you think you are in accordance with who I am?"

"With all respect, Sir Humpty, please get on your legs. We're leaving now."

"Why? What's wrong with here? I hate it, 'tis true, but it's a home of sorts I've come to peace with."

Cullen lost his composure and fired off directly:

"We're leaving now, egg, okay? Unless you want to die scrambled."

Humpty blubbered through the idea. "Oh, no," he said. "Not in the least in that way."

"Fine. Then I suggest we start moving." Cullen held both doors of the barn's front open for Humpty, since, of course, the egg couldn't possibly fit through just one door.

They went not west, nor north, but northwest, this decided in an unorthodox idea of Cullen's that their pursuers might be confused by a mixture of direction in their tracks. He didn't know, really, since he'd never himself been tracked.

At any rate, behind Cullen, the egg huffed and puffed. Its breathing comprised a cacophony of abundance, indulgence and debauchery that had it breathless even at the times they rested.

"We should keep moving, Sir Humpty."

The egg waved its short arm in dismissal.

"Yes, solider. Yes."

They moved further and deeper, deeper into the vast thickness of the jungle, where once there, the whoops, chirps and growls of animals grew more pronounced. It was an honest adage that at this time came to Cullen. From hell to the frying pan was what filled his mind, step after careful step.

Jacob was close to seven feet tall. Seven feet and acutely muscular, all of which added to, in reality, a freakishness spliced with fantasy as could be the case of something having a god-like aura.

He arrived shirtless and glowing, and under any other circumstance, would have made Bella laugh, particularly if her farm was not at stake. But her farm was at stake as was she, which left nothing funny about this.

Jacob's boys already had their oiled torches lit and burning. Their guns were locked and loaded. In many ways, this was an indulgent display of local gang-like/rebel muscle, apt to stand guard at the state fairs or some other outlawed event the Crown called "sideshows." But again, that was his point, wasn't it? That was Jacob's place. He was a gangster, a rebel, an outlaw. Honestly, Bella could not imagine him and his faction in any other way.

And even with that, Bella still did manage a laugh. It was instinct. It was like a muscle's reaction. Bella guffawed directly in front of Jacob and his men.

"What's all this then?" she asked.

"A display," Jacob sharply answered.

"Clearly." She turned to Carlisle. "You called _this?" _

"I most certainly did," the poet answered.

"They look ridiculous."

"No," answered Carlisle. "They look historical."

Historical. It was a strong word these days, used for strong purposes and to all ends, strong resolve. Not in the least was it a catchphrase or something used in a light manner, but more as an end result, a harsh conclusion, culminating to the tantamount of struggle. Historical, which these days was uttered in low breath, particularly of the H in the word.

Of course the other side to this was she let the enemy go. That was history in and of itself to Bella Swan, a commiserate of the rebel cause. She let a good bounty, a good ransom, a strong headline in the soldier and egg, escape right out the barn's doors.

Why did she do it? Why did she tell him "run?" Maybe it was a simple matter of the odds stacked against the soldier, Cullen, and how she appreciated the tight spot he was in with a 2.5 meter tall egg, particularly now with Jacob and his fable-like composure.

On the other hand, no one looked around. Not a single pair of eyes in Jacob's clan looked about the vast fields surrounding the farmhouse and barn. Instead, like Jacob, they, gazed directly at Bella as she stood on the front porch with Carlisle beside her.

"You're out of order, Jacob. You know that, right? Vastly out of order."

"Vastly, Bella? Vastly, is it? As we hope to protect ourselves from royal abuse and in some cases, genocide, all you come up with is 'vastly?' Think of the reduction."

Carlisle interjected. "Honestly, Bella, you should. You need to look fast, lass and be sharp about it. Comrade Jacob calls it reduction. Reduction means reduced, and this is what our men, your fellow rebels, have been reduced to. Rogue warriors living off what's left of the lean land's fat, which is bloody nothing these days."

"Made worse," Jacob added. "By you hiding a soldier and a representation of our oppression."

He stepped his huge body closer to her.

"My whole life I work the fields for that false crown and its underlings. I have no shirt on my body because it may as well be that the shirt fell apart at the seams off my back. Why wear it at all when it is useless and I can't afford another to replace it? The others here, soldiers as you know them were once simple workers like me to the royal machine's mass. They are gears and cogs. A smith for horseshoes, a carpenter for a king's castle,

a man with furs who sells his wares at the cheap to keep the king warm in winter."

"The soldier was a first and final straw, Bella," said Carlisle. "As Jacob says, you are the weak link which threatens the chain. And when the chain is threatened, it might mean the collapse of all our efforts. The end result stands before you. Centuries of advancement, achievement and purpose in both kingdom and life, but dashed asunder for people like us. And why? Because in the immediacy, you've chosen to hide a state's soldier and a state's showpiece."

"A drunk and a grunt," said Jacob.

She clicked her tongue then raised her head to the towering Jacob. "This is absurd."

"You've made your choice. Problem is, with that choice you haven't a leg to stand on."

"Meaning what?" she asked.

"Our protection as comrades is no longer offered to you."

Her mouth dropped open.

"What?" and followed that with, "You're joking."

"We will not raid you," Jacob said. "We will not burn down your farm and execute you in the process. You are still our sister in life. What we will no longer do, is look after you."

"I looked after you blokes," Bella said. "I fed you people in the field."

Jacob was unwavered.

"'Tis impossible now to protect you with your recent activities with the rogue soldier and egg." Jacob leaned down to look Bella straight in the eye. "You're on your own. You're no longer one of us, Bella. Not after hiding the enemy we now must face."

"Face?"

"As in track, find and kill." He kept his eyes on her. "We have no intention of any longer being smiths, carpenters and slaves to the crown. Those days have been lived through. We have a legitimate voice, if not a legitimate force, which you're no longer part of. You are out of our concern. I'm very sorry for that."

"But," Bella began. "What about our history. We grew up together. We've known each other since we were children. What about that?"

"What about the present?" Jacob asked. "That's the concern, the present. Nothing else means anything, Bella. It's the here and now with which any consideration should be taken." He shook his massive head. "You dropped the ball, Bella. Now we're here to pick that ball back up."

"To injury, insult is always added."

These were words her mother used in lieu of bedtime stories. In place of books read to lure Bella to sleep, where instead of visions of furry bunnies, fuzzy chicks, playful puppies and purring kittens, Bella took on adages of the world gone awry, courtesy of her mother's strong voice and harsh hands. She was a farmer. So was her father. Both were land workers, and both held the ideal protection of theirs was penultimate to anything else in life.

And as far as bedtime stories went, Bella was told to pray and be thankful, to cherish a free life and rue the day injury held hands with insult, and that there were factions in the kingdom and the world beyond whose intent was to see it as so. Factions that would stop at nothing to take all this away forever, and forever more, make sure none of it ever came back.

"It isn't what you want, my sweet," her mother said as Bella lay tucked tight in her bed. "That world where effort is rewarded with a demand of more effort is beyond reproach. It is a hell that should be wished on no one. And you should pray against it."

"I will, Mommy."

"Will you, Bella?"

"Yes."

"You're lying, Bella. I know you are."

Then at the dinner table when as much was repeated, Bella still answered, "I will, Mom."

And then, as a late teen, poised to take the pickup out to meet girlfriends and sequester first, second and third dates, "I will, Mother," an older Bella answered.

Of course, those were lies, or something close to lies. Her mother still knew so.

What she didn't know about was Jacob with her Bella, and how both were lovers into and past high school.

With him, before and after making love, it was all the same in its politics. Her parents were as much propaganda as promise, with which Bella agreed.

The Lord and Lady who were her parents, needed a harsh dealing with.

"I don't want them killed," Bella admitted. "They're my parents."

"Think of the rebellion," Jacob said, lacing his military boots and getting up from where she lay naked. "Consider the fight. Consider the inevitable freedom because of the fight."

"I don't want to kill you either, Jacob, should anything happen to my mom or dad."

Nonetheless, not long after, her parents stood on the gallows.

The ropes were cinched, and moments later, with a lever pulled by a henchman, the platform beneath her mother and father dropped away. It took less than a second toward a life's time consequence.

With Jacob and his gang having long left, his point to her having clearly been made,

Bella's second visitor involved the roaring presence of two Humvees and a tank which kicked up dust from the drive that led up from the road.

In the first Humvee sat James, who signaled with a circling hand to the second Humvee to drive abound the farm. They did so, bounding off in a slow, menacing pace.

As to James, his Humvee stopped. He exited and approached the farmhouse. He looked around himself, then after Bella came to the door, the captain sized her up almost offensively.

"It's time you send your daily message," he said with a strong coy to his tone. "And we want to hear everything, especially if you feel like explaining hiding one of our own and a rogue egg."

She cocked her head at him. "And what makes you think it's me?"

"A lot more than what makes me think it's not you. But really, enough double talk. The broadcasts get done from here, yeah?"

"Here's one place."

James looked over to a nearby soldier, who nodded in return.

"What will you say?" he asked.

"Pertinent regard," she answered. "Stuff to bolster up the boys."

"The boys." Either James laughed or sneezed. Regardless, he quickly recovered to look around himself. Immediately, those in his squad laughed, almost on queue.

"The boys is it?" He looked back at her. "Well, how quaint is that? Real down home it is. Well, you go on now, Bella Swan, known propagandist and suspected aid to rebels. You go and give word to your comrades while me and my boys have a word of our own."

James turned to his men, some of them bloodied and bandaged as if they'd previously been in a bad fight. Bella was left in the foyer, large, hollow and empty save for Carlisle, who stood just outside the kitchen with that calm aristocratic way of how a cup of tea and saucer is held.

"Oh, dear. Are we in a spot now, Comrade Swan? Wasn't it this very weakness of character you now suffer that I warned about in "Field Harvest?"

She looked down at the heavy military-tread prints on the light grey color of the porch.

"I'm not familiar with whatever you're talking about, Mr. Carlisle."

"It's one of my more famous elegies. 'Field Harvest' in fact, is almost a rebel tome."

Bella shrugged. "I can barely read as it is, sir."

"I've heard you on the radio. You do fine. At any rate, I'm sure James has read it. I can assure you that. He's a smart one. Dedication is not the word. More a student of the scenario we all, as a broken country, find ourselves in. Worse yet, at least for us, is his warrior status. I write about that with "Blood Sport," and mean every intent of each stanza to be about him." The poet walked forward and past her into the empty living room. "Did you know that?" he asked.

"No," Bella answered.

"'Field Harvest,' though, truly depicts what James is about. James is a juggernaut set upon the acreage, much like here, to reap all it pushes through the soil. It doesn't matter the kind of crop. All that matters _is _the crop." Carlisle set off to walk again, still holding the cup and saucer, passing behind her a second time to return to the dining room. "You, dear," he said, "are a crop. A prized one by all rites who James wants in his grasp."

"Not yet, he doesn't."

"Are you saying he won't catch you up and finish you off? That childhood lovers can't have disruptions?"

"I'm not saying anything, poet."

"Or," Carlisle continued. "That Jacob and his team of reminiscent transgressors will somehow stave him away?" He laughed and began walking back toward the foyer. "Hardly likely. My last piece published in the rebel magazine tells all about that misplaced factor. 'Trinity's Fury' spells the whole thing out. The weaponry kills, yes, and that includes the soldier behind the sights. But he can shoot anywhere, even the brain and heart, however, the story of rebellion remains the same."

He was about to pass through the foyer when she turned and stepped in front of him, raising her arm and slapping the cup and saucer into his chest, spilling everything.

"I don't like your tone, poet, nor what your tone is saying at the moment. You might want to rethink things when under my roof and guard, yeah?"

Carlisle didn't even blink. He instead smiled. "What guard?" he asked. "And what roof?"

She seethed, narrowing her eyes at him. "I wonder for the life of me whose side you're on? I'm sure others have done the same. I do know some of your work, Carlisle. Not all of it, but a good portion, and to that, sometimes I have problems realizing for whom the propaganda is intended."

"My poetry isn't an easy read."

"Obviously. But until you trust the juggernaut out there to not string you up, or until you learn to load a pistol on your own, you might want to give attention to some increased clarity in your next piece. Because as I see it, it's pretty murky how it reads now."

She left Carlisle and moved up to the farmhouse's second floor. Up there, it was as empty as on the first floor. There was no furniture. The floors and walls were bare. With each step Bella heard herself echo in the emptiness.

Of course James' boys knew what to take and did so with what they pleased. What they did leave remained in the smallest room that was Bella's bedroom. Whenever walking in these, days, she noted it faced east, and how as a small girl, Bella saw in the growing morning sun, her father's back-bent result of his early-morning labors in the fields.

A 25-year-old tractor stood dusty in the barn, yet the machine was still brand new. The fuel in its tanks was now varnish, and for any hope the tractor would currently start, was truly a joke. Her father refused its assistance much in the same way he refused the draw-strength of a horse, mule or steer. The good stuff, the luxuries of tractors and farm animals, softened man, grew him out fat, stupid and created a lack of awareness in his person which Charlie thought finally made him an easy target for whomever his daughter was involved with.

So out of frustration, twice, Charlie slapped Bella, hopeful to get the message through. On the first time, Renee intervened, holding down his right arm from a second go round. Then, with the second occasion, Renee gave no motherly protection at all. She too was finished with Bella's snark that "their world" was finished, and ready to be taken over.

"You'll take that spew to your own grave, Bella!" Charlie shouted, not at all like a father, but with the direct aim of a life-long enemy. "And I shall watch it happen. Do you understand me? You will force me to watch it happen."

But no, none of that now. Now was the time of her address. She turned to the four items in her bedroom James told his soldiers during the multitude of raids to leave in place. Take anything else except what stands inside the smallest upstairs bedroom.

Those were Bella's childhood bed, a stern wooden chair, a table and atop the table, the transmitter and microphone. Otherwise, there was nothing else. Her bedroom, beyond this, held no other purpose. She slept here and issued propaganda from here, something James understood after so many visits, but decided to never act upon.

"Fellow fighters against the crown and for the oppressed, we have witnessed another day of triumph and heartbreak."

Bella paused, lowering her mouth from the microphone. Through the window, she noticed James, his rifle slung over his shoulder and his arms folded. He gazed directly at her. Quickly, Bella went back to the microphone.

"As I am certain each of you realize, as a force we are expected to do two things. Give up or perish. As I've said in previous messages, to do one or the other is immensely personal, though neither choice will proceed without consequences. If you give up, you weaken the chain our brothers and sisters who have sought to increase the strength of consciousness with blood and heart. Opposite that, if you perish while fighting, you obtain a martyr's revolutionary celebration to carry on the good fight. In either event, yes, death will be the outcome, which is good. Good, because death brings more life, more strength and more freedom. Lastly, I will no longer give the day's losses, as that capability is no longer available to me. Therefore I apologize for not reporting the simultaneous raids from two days ago on the Breeding front and Cane Creek South outpost. Know only the fact that all losses in this manner of rebels fighting the crown result in the utmost honor and tradition of the rebel cause, itself representing victory in and of itself."

She glanced out her window. James was no longer in the fields.

"This is Comrade Swan. The daily message concludes."

She reached up to the transmission switch, but a large, grimy hand with dirt-caked fingernails beat her to it, knocking the switch down with a loud click. Bella jumped up and pulled her gun out from under her smock. Yet James already had aim on her with his rifle.

"Drop it! Right now!"

"I won't!" She steadied her gun on James same as James did on her. "They out there need to hear someone's words of encouragement."

James shrugged. "You're giving up, aren't you?"

She stared at him, then lowered her gun. After a moment when James was sure Bella's gun was far enough away from her, he lowered his own gun. Then he reached out and with his index finger, tapped Bella's shoulder.

"Tag, you're it!"

Her face cocked his direction, which when she saw a hint of James' smile, Bella gave a vague laugh.

"This isn't school," she said.

"No," he returned. "It isn't, though I sometimes dream it is."

He sat down on the bed and looked around himself.

"We cleaned you out good, didn't we?"

Bella nodded.

"Most of that crap is under lock, and I have the only key. My guys caught some soldier trying to get in the shed where all of it is. They brought him to me, and all I did was wag a finger at him. I said, 'Don't do that again,' and let him go, much to the amazement of my two guys who brought me this thief from the outset. My soldiers dropped their jaws, because they know a year earlier, I would have cut the soldier's hands off, or maybe executed him. But the fact is, Bella, I'm tiring of this whole mess. Sure, I've taken sides, and I've a job to do, but it doesn't mean I can't tire of this whole God damned mess."

"And it takes the family Swan war booty to explain this to you?"

"No, Bella. The fact I liked hearing your voice is all it takes. I've listened to your messages. It does no one any good, particularly me, but I still listen in when I can."

She sat down beside him on her bed. It squawked tremendously, and for a moment, both laughed until he hushed off the whole situation.

"The boys?" she asked.

"Downstairs. If I'm not on the staircase in two minutes, coming down and under full power, they'll come up and kill you, no questions asked."

"So you're here to deliver a message, are you?"

He nodded. "True."

"Something more, is it, than just about childhood days in grade school?" She smiled. "Or your jealousy of Jacob?"

James shrugged. "I made out with you first. Right on this bed in fact."

"A 13-year-old's curiosity," she said.

"Yeah, but I still dream about it." He looked off through her window. "That's why…"

"Why I'm still alive?"

He turned back to her. "Yes."

"Kiss me, then, James."

He did for a very long minute. Then when it was over, Bella leaned back as James cleared his throat.

"Just like old times," he said.

"Skip that now. What's the news?"

"Your egg," he said, now with sudden officiousness. "And your renegade lieutenant."

"Neither of which are _mine_, James."

"I'm under orders to find both as this is my territory. I'm also under orders to engage anyone who poses opposition to my search in particular, the egg. The soldier is collateral. He's not the prize in this contest." James sighed. "Look, I know Jacob is nearby. This is his neighborhood as much as mine. And I won't fault you, Bella, if you tell him I'll be plumbing deep into his territory. But if our paths cross, I will take him out. The stakes are too high for me to this time turn the other way."

She smiled with irony.

"You won't take him out, James. Not if he's first on the mark."

"He was first on the mark with you, Bella. But that was when we were kids. It's a whole different story now. I have senior officers all the way to the king sniffing me up for Humpty. We had the egg once, but it got away because of this lieutenant, Cullen, who I don't think realized the gravity of the issue. Cullen simply saw what he saw, which were royal soldiers about to execute a state symbol. I would have reacted the same way to be honest. In any event, the game's now intensified. It's gotten intense. And worse yet…"

"Worse?" she asked.

"I've been told to destroy any place the egg's been. Just so he can't return."

"Any place?"

James fell quiet and looked down at his watch. Bella leaned forward.

"You can't," she said. "You just can't."

"I have to. Half my squad right now are planting explosives throughout your fields. They're happy to do it, too, knowing the havoc wreaked from here with your weapons and tunnels." He shook his head. "For goodness sake, Bella, how did it come to this?"

"A silly question with an easy answer. A rebellion against the monarchy came to this. As for you, it's been a life's long fight with Jacob. Over me."

Both fell quiet. James then took a second look at his watch, then stood up.

"You've 15 minutes to get out, Bella. You should take what you can now. But don't look to me for help. I can't help this time."

"15 minutes? Just that, 15 minutes?"

James nodded and she glared at him.

"And what about the poet?"

"He left as soon as he saw the first batch of C4 come out of the supply truck. Funny, isn't it, how _they _always know."

"No, James, it isn't funny. None of this is funny." She got to her feet, her arms out from her sides. "And just in case you've forgotten from when we were kids, I'm really not that tough. Ma and Da being hanged, seeing friends shot while tied against telephone poles and street signs. And now this. Now this!"

Bella cried a bit, then sniffled. Afterward, she touched James' arm, then reached up to his cheek. The captain stood stoic, having now become the hard soldier.

"15 minutes, Bella."

He turned top open her bedroom door, finding two of his squad, their guns drawn.

"Might as well put them up, men. The lass has nothing on her."

What is to be done in 15 minutes before your entire life is destroyed?

Bella found it fortunate there was nothing for her to pack, stuff or strap to her back. The house was bare, and the fridge in the kitchen had food that was close to spoil anyway. What Bella did have was identification, which she stuffed in the smallest backpack she had. She also put in a few nearby granola bars, and when she counted it out from her piggy bank – yes, a piggy bank that she kept beneath her bed – amazingly $125 came out into her hand.

Bella afterward thought about her cellular phone, and with a few minutes left, did the amazing to herself, which was blast an email to every Lieutenant Edward Cullen the internet afforded.

The message was simple:

"_Where are you? Signed, Farm Girl Bella." _

Now, she was away, and getting farther with each step. She dashed down the farm's dirt drive to the secondary road where she continued to run at full speed.

Along the way, she passed soldiers who laughed amongst themselves, all of them donned in explosive gear. Others, Bella suspected, laughed at her.

They stood smoking cigarettes, drinking from flasks or checking their weaponry, only to look up at the dashing girl. Some wished Bella good luck, while others yelled, "Run, rebel bitch! Run!" while the remainder just watched her pass.

Bella understood the soldiers were there to witness the demolition of the Swan farm, _her _farm that she ran from as fast as possible. And at that, within a half kilometer, that demolition occurred. The farm, her childhood home, her childhood, even, became a grey-black mushroom cloud.

The force knocked Bella to her face. Then, when she got up, she spat out a tooth from the right side of her mouth, then another from the left. Blood was on her arms, and from her mouth a third tooth fell into her palm.

Bella knew to do nothing other than put the teeth into her pocket. Afterward, once the snow-colored ash fell over her as if this were winter, Bella continued onward.

End Part Two


	6. Part Three: Carlisle's Contempt - Part 1

Part Three: Carlisle's Contempt

"Begging his majesty's pardon, but I fear I have no news other than what I've already told you."

"That they've escaped, is it?"

"Yes."

"And this rebel girl is part of their escape?"

"It seems most likely, your highness."

"And nothing else?"

"No, sire. Nothing else."

"That won't do, poet. That won't do in the least."

"I understand your displeasure, your highness…"

"Do you?" the king, disguised in his peasant garb, looked over the pub before turning to Carlisle, lowering his voice as he did so. "It's not about my displeasure, Poet, but what's at stake."

Carlisle's Adam's apple was evident behind the collar of his trench coat.

"Yes, sire," he began faintly, "I have a good idea of what's at stake."

"A good idea? As opposed to a bad idea, Poet? Well thank heaven for that. At least there seems to be honesty in your self assessment. But look here," and the king leaned across the table toward Carlisle. "Honesty, my friend, doesn't do shit for me at the moment. That's because honesty is its own foregone conclusion toward the opposite, which is dishonesty. Dishonesty is what there is, and it starts here, with your king." He smiled then frowned. "By the way, where is your ear?"

"Which ear, sire?"

"The missing one, Carlisle, for goodness' sake."

"It's in my pocket, sire."

"In your pocket? Why? What in heaven's name is it doing there?"

"I put it there, sire."

"Yes, but, Poet, stop beating about the bush. Your ear, man, _your ear. _How was it removed from your bloody head?"

"A gun, sire."

"Whose?"

Carlisle closed his eyes. He breathed out with exasperation, then answered, "The soldier. The same soldier, sire, who is with Humpty Dumpty and the rebel girl."

The king nodded. He smelled like lavender soap, at least to himself.

"You take risks, Carlisle. You walk fine lines. Fact is, I don't like those who walk fine lines. I like steady, black and white scenarios." He then watched the poet's nose, the gray water dripping from the right nostril. "Need you a tissue, Poet?" the king asked.

"Yes."

"Fine. Afterward, I'll put your ear back on your head."

Thirty minutes later, the king leaned back, impressed with his handiwork. Then he saw a fault, and clicked his tongue.

"It needs one more stitch. One more stitch, eh, then we'll see to it."

"Okay."

The king finished the thread, then snipped it. "It'll hold now. Your ear, I mean."

"I hope so, sire."

They were in a flat atop the pub, from which below, the pub's live music, voices and glasses being clinked together could be heard and felt could be felt and heard through the floorboards. As far as this flat, what was it used for? What else, the poet understood, but the king's kingly dalliances with the ghetto booty he liked to rub his mid-seventy year old strung out weariness against.

"Likely Stories" Carlisle remembered titling the poem, which defined this very place, and the hours of day and night spent in bare and dark flats like this that became places of consummation for his majesty as well as the archbishop, both in costume as peasants, but who carried wads of cash in their pockets.

Carlisle was known for the poem, and even more poignantly, the poem's accuracy. And for that, the king liked Carlisle right off the bat, especially as he cornered his highness that first night they met.

"You answered the ad."

"And you wrote it."

"How do you know?"

"It's cryptic message, the language, the wordplay and arrangement." Carlisle gazed across the table. "Did you get a poet to write it?"

"Yes."

"Where is the poet now?"

"Hanged. Do you fear the same?"

"Of course, your highness."

"As you should, poet."

Their meetings continued every other week. And with each week came a new assignment Carlisle gave to himself. He wrote about being followed and as well as following others. Intrigue in verse, stanzas devoted to stasis, couplets about counter-offences, until he protected himself better with slyness than a gun.

But now, with this time, this time was close. Far too close. His ear felt tentative, while the king looked unconvinced. Carlisle regarded himself as gnawed through. A bit of the hollow, like he'd just puked up two meals

"I wish you'd shot both of them. Hell, all three of them, including the egg."

"There wasn't the chance."

"There is _always _the chance, Carlisle. You just don't think in such a manner. Survival is not your instinct. You haven't a kingdom to service and a shitload of trouble looming in your cornflakes each morning. You pick up a pen and lay waste to a whole detachment on the southeast ridge. Kudos for that. Keep at it. But remember as well for whom you work."

He tossed Carlisle a bag of coins. "Oh," and the king tossed a smaller bag. "That's for your new ear in case my shitty stitch job doesn't hold for your old ear."

Quickly, greedily, Carlisle pocketed both. The king sat across from him on a stool. The flat was pathetic in many ways. A bed, a stool, a vanity. All chipped, all wobbly. The room smelled of old sex and new mildew. The toilet was nothing the poet felt keen to seeing at the moment.

But even so, befitting to the king himself, a celebration was needed. He produced to glasses and a bottle. He poured them half full, handed one to Carlisle and raised his own.

"To worlds gone right."

"To worlds," Carlisle said.

Both drank.

_Part three to be continued…_


End file.
